


Grumpy Old Spies: Interrogation.

by Batagur



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:38:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4307166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batagur/pseuds/Batagur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ripped from today's headlines... gag!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grumpy Old Spies: Interrogation.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has footnotes - *number*

Intimidation was an art form that he perfected over the years. I wonder if he had first learned it as a defense mechanism against the malevolent happenings of his childhood. Maybe it helped keep the bullies at bay in the orphanage. Perhaps it had kept him free from pranks while he was in the Voyenno Morskoy Flot. Maybe it had kept him alive when he was in the KGB. All I know is, when I met Illya Kuryakin, he had already perfected that chip on his shoulder look and the clipped condescending tone that made most people think twice about engaging him in argument or other adversarial activity. 

The room was bare, white wall, white floor, and one lone chair. Handcuffed to that single chair was one Robert Guy DeFournier. Illya paced the room, circling DeFournier and speaking in soft, perfect French. Illya never stopped moving; his eyes never stopped burning holes in DeFournier. The results were evident in our guest. He squirmed under Illya's scrutiny, glaring at him when Illya came to a point where he could see him. But I saw the naked fear in the man's eyes when Illya was out of his field of vision.

Illya did not give the man a chance to answer. He came in and delivered his message, staring down his nose at DeFournier as if he was nothing, just a cockroach on the wall. Turning his back with purpose, Illya walked out the door. His slight limp made him appear to saunter, but I've never known Illya Kuryakin to saunter in his life. 

In less than a minute, he was standing next to me in the observatory. 

"How much time will you give him?"

"If you were listening, you would have heard me say, 'vous avez deux heures,*1*'" he answered. 

"Two hours? Want him to sweat good and long." I grinned at him. 

"I want him to get over his own machismo," Illya said, letting a smile play at the corners of his mouth. 

"He thinks we will torture him?" That time I chuckled. The idea seemed brutishly unnecessary.

"He doesn't know what to think," Illya looked at the man on the screen in the plain white room. "The US military has been caught torturing. Why shouldn't the UN's covert branch of InterPol?"

"Because U.N.C.L.E. has never needed to," I answered perhaps a tad bit indignantly. Illya gave a slight shrug. It was more a facial expression than a body gesture. 

"The price of civility?" Illya calm reply made me pause. "Du fric?*2*" he added.

"No one else seems willing to pay it these days," I said. It had only been five minutes, and the guest was fidgeting in his chair. The room temperature was 75 degrees fahrenheit, but the man head looked shiny and wet. "Perhaps you should send in someone to check that he won't pass out in pure panic."

"I'll send in Foxx," Illya said thoughtfully. I raised an eyebrow. I found his choice more than interesting. 

"I said, send in someone to check." I looked Illya over. "Not send in a pitbull on a leash to make him wet his pants."

Illya turned, appraising my posture along with my tone. "You have a low opinion of Mr. Foxx."

"On the contrary," I rebutted. "I think very highly of him. He is very good at what he does."

"And what do you think he does?" Illya asked.

"I think he does whatever you tell him," I answered. 

"Humph." 

I know I'm right. Mr. Foxx was hand picked by Illya. He was a genius with a attitude. Unlike Illya, Foxx didn't care to practice his genius in the lab. He was all field operative: cool, quick on his feet, and inventive. However, like Illya, he lack social charms and could be considered quite cold. He was the heir apparent Ice Prince, knocking Illya to the next level as 'Old Man Winter.'

It was truly too bad that Illya could not find a protégé that was exactly like him, but Illya's type came few and far between. The mold was broken and the new mold was less instead of more. However, contemplating all the ingredients that are needed to make an Illya Kuryakin, re-making the mold would be a frightening endeavor. What so easily made a genius could have made a homicidal maniac with far too much intelligence to be caught, just as effortlessly. 

"Would you prefer I send him in with Cooper?"

"Why spoil the surprise," I replied. "They will be going in on the end of the waiting period to handle the interrogation."

"Then maybe I should go back in."

I chuckled. "I wouldn't want you to risk you perfect reputation as a cold bastard."

"And while we argue, time passes." He gestured at the screen. "He doesn't seem any better for our debate."

"Non sequitur," I said. "Don't change the subject."

"Actually, I didn't," he replied. "It is ultimately about our guest, is it not?"

"Yes, but it is not about our conversation." 

"Have you checked your blood sugar, Napoleon."

I rolled my eyes. "I am not having an attack. I'm not being moody or irrational. I'm just discussing our guest accommodations."

"He is our prisoner and we are about to interrogate him… like we have interrogated countless suspects before. We will use the technology that is available to us to extract the information with minimal effort."

"In the end, it is all some form of violation," I groused, sticking my hands in my jacket pockets. DeFournier was visibly shivering.

"Yes, it is," Illya said softly. "C'est la guerre.*3*"

 

"Indeed," I said. "Call in your pitbull, tovarisch." I sighed. 

Illya turned to me, stepping into my personal space. I was mildly surprised to feel his lips brush mine. We are never demonstrative of our relationship while inside HQ. We considered PDA bad form for the employees and we tried to set a strict example. 

"And that was for?" I asked.

"Caring about my reputation," he whispered. 

"And what about mine?" I looked him over critically.

"Moi, je n'en sais rien,*4*" Illya whispered against my ear as he brushed past me, and out of the room. 

 

*Footnotes*  
1\. You have two hours.  
2\. Too expensive?  
3\. That is war.  
4\. I know nothing about it.


End file.
